


Slow Beginnings and a Humble Get Together

by lucifers_left_earlobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:08:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_left_earlobe/pseuds/lucifers_left_earlobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester brothers have just rescued Castiel from April, the fallen angel, and have brought hiy back to the bunker to heal him up. During Cas's presumably indefinite visit, Dean realizes a few things about himself, Castiel, and their relationship. Dean/Cas AU based in canon, with the minor exception that Ezekiel never tells Castiel to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Castiel showed up at the bunker, Dean knew he was a goner.

After he’d killed the fallen angel, Cas said her name was April, Sam and Dean had dragged Castiel’s ass back to the bunker to get him healed up and thoroughly recovered. It took a while, a long while, for Castiel to even heal enough to climb from Dean’s bed and grab breakfast with the Sam and Dean.

Dean started sleeping on the couch about three weeks ago. Not because he had an issue with sharing a bed with the ex-angel, they’re just friends, but he wanted to give Cas room to… accommodate himself to human life. The guy has had sex, hell, he was fucking proud to tell Dean all the gory details about _that_ experience, but he’s not familiar with human manners, quirks, or daily human life. Dean hardly thinks Castiel is even acquainted with pain all too well, despite his tendency to get die quite often.

So he brings Castiel food in bed, and not just burgers and pie. He makes Castiel soup to get him up to strength, he lets him sip whiskey from his father’s old flask before he goes to bed to build up his tolerance to those sorts of things. Once he’s up and at ‘em, he teaches Cas how to work the showers.

It was strange, watching his friend adjust to the foreign mechanisms of the witchcraft propelled hydraulics. Cas had spent a fair amount of time examining the faucets and pipes before actually testing it out by turning the cold water on high and letting it cascade upon the pair of them for a moment before Dean begrudgingly twists it off.

His discordance to human behavior becomes apparent when he starts stripping to his, well his vessel’s, birthday suit right in front of Dean.

“Dude!”

Cas just turns his eyes on Dean as he continues pushing at the downy plaid boxers Dean had given him. If he doesn’t stop soon, they’re going to have a problem.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas asks, his voice the epitome of innocent curiosity. Dean restrains himself from swatting Cas’s hands off his waist and opts for the safer option of turning on his heel and beelining it the hell out of the shower room.

“You have to wait until you’re alone to start stripping,” Dean mumbles just before he pulls the heavy wooden door shut behind him.

At the comforting sound of the slamming door, Dean presses his back against the cool wall of the empty mess hallway and heaves a shaking, almost painful sigh. Castiel had almost stripped in front of him, had almost showered in proximity of him.

He tries to brush of the image of the light trail of coarse dark hair trailing southward of Cas’s bellybutton as best he can.

He collapses onto the floor and focuses on his hunts, on his brother’s captivity within the angel he’d placed his trust in to heal his brother. Sam. Zeke hasn’t really splurged any of the gory details of Sam’s pending vitality; he’s really only really given vague details about how Sam would fare better if Zeke resided within him for a while. And Dean doesn’t mind, not really, as long as Zeke supplies him some details of his brother’s prospects for survival.

When his attention has been successfully diverted from Cas, he pushes himself off the floor and heads in the direction of the living room. The halls are almost confining as Dean at first walks, then stomps, then breaks out into a light jog, and finally sprints to escape the impending claustrophobia.

He bursts into the entry way and find Sam splayed across the couch, his feet hanging over the edge, watching what looks to be Nemesis, if Dean has his Star Trek movies in order (and he does).

Sam turns at his arrival and grins. “What the hell are you running from in such a hurry?” he asks, his tone easy and calm.

“I, uh… It’s nothing. Scoot over; show your elders some respect.” Dean doesn’t wait for his response as he shoves Sam’s legs out of the way and collapses upon the cushion of their couch and reaches for the unopened bottle of beer resting on the coffee table. Sam stops him, unfairly utilizing his longer reach to snatch the bottle away just as Dean’s fingers wrap around the neck.

“Don’t give me that shit. What’s up?”

“It’s nothing, Sam.” Dean adjusts himself upon the couch, trying to sink into the cushions as best he can to avoid meeting Sam’s, and Zeke’s, gaze. “Watch your damn Star Trek.”

Thankfully, Sam doesn’t say anything else, though he _does_ focus on Dean’s face for a moment. He just pretends to ignore it, gluing his eyes to the television and avoiding any actual confrontation. He should really talk to Zeke about when Sam gets his body back.

So they watch, calmly and silently. It’s all really comfortable, actually. Almost like it was when they were kids, except for the addition of the food and nicer quarters and the lack of their dad’s ever observant eyes watching in anticipation for any slip ups. It’s an hour before anything really interrupts the movie.

“Dean, I don’t know what to do now.”

Dean starts at the gravelly baritone of Cas’s voice, originating from just behind where he’s seated. Slowly, he turns and faces the man, taken aback while unsurprised that he’s neglected to dry off, let alone cover himself on his venture back from the showers.

“Cas,” Dean begins. “Where is your towel?”

“What towel?” Castiel asks in response, his voice a combination of utter confusion and total condescension. Dean tears his eyes away from the callous way Cas just… carries himself. He’s completely shameless standing buck ass nude in the bunker, not even bothering to attempt to cover up in the slightest.

“The towel in the closet that I showed you earlier.” Dean stands, choosing to ignore Sam’s goofy expression and leads his friend back to the shower room. When he rounds the couch, he finds a small pool of water has gathered around Cas’s feet and, upon further examination, finds that he left a trail all the way from the room. Damn, that’s going to be a bitch to wipe up. “C’mon, let’s get you covered up.”

Going off of the sound of muffled laughter and the splashing pitter patter of wet feet, Castiel follows. They walk in silence, Cas lagging just a step behind Dean, occasionally bumping his cold, wet toes on the back of Dean’s heal and mumbling little apologies. Dean doesn’t mind, quite the contrary actually, a small part of him flutters unexplainably.

He reaches the door to the washroom and heaves it open, surprised that Cas was even able to get himself out of their unassisted. Maybe the fallen angel still has some girth and inhuman strength to him after all, despite how mortal and weak he appears. Just looking at the guy, Dean wouldn’t think much of him as far as muscular ability goes; sure, he has muscles, but they’re sinewy and more for agility than anything else. Though they do look sturdy enough to grip, Cas’s arms that is, as Dean pulls them back and drills into Cas-

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of any nonsensical thoughts. Dean completely avoids meeting Castiel’s eyes, or body for that matter, until he grabs the towel from the closet on the other side of the expansive room. When he does, he returns to his friend and hands it to him while locking eyes with the still steamy floor, waiting until he sees the bottom of the towel dangle beside Cas’s ankles to even consider meeting his friends eyes.

“Dean, why do I have to wear this ridiculous thing?”

“Because it’s what people do when they live with other people. Especially when those other people don’t want to see you naked.”

Cas just gives him this five mile stare of absolute perplexity at his assertion. Then, in true indecent Castiel fashion, lets the towel drop from where it was haphazardly wrapped around his waist and walks out of the room, leaving the door gaping behind him. Dean tries to focus as little as he can on Cas’s ass as he follows him out, leaving the discarded towel rumpled on the floor.

Pulling the door shut behind him, Dean sees that Castiel didn’t head in the direction of the living room, as he’d been expecting of somewhat as brash as to equate nudism with humanity, but rather heads in the direction of the bedrooms, specifically the hall where Dean’s bedroom is located.

“Cas, you can’t borrow my clothes if that’s what you’re planning on doing.”

“Please?”

Dean rubs a hand on his face, supposing it would be better to have Cas in his clothes than stark naked so he gives in. “Fine, but I’m taking you in town for some things tomorrow.” When he sees the protest forming in the sudden tenseness of Castiel’s shoulders, he rebuts any arguments. “Don’t fight me on this, dude. We’re not gonna be splitting boxers daily.”

Something akin to a sigh rumbles from Cas’s chest and he doesn’t respond to Dean’s statement. Instead, he heads on straight into his bedroom and drops to his knees, plucking through the many layers of plaid and denim strewn across his floor.

“Can I borrow boxers today?” Castiel asks, turning his eyes on Dean. And, geez, it’s a miracle Dean didn’t die right there, because his friend just looked so… something. Dean doesn’t bother scratching the surface of that bag of cats, but instead chooses to nod his approval that Cas can wear whatever the hell he wants.

So a small smile tugs at the corners of Cas’s lips and his big, azure eyes return to the piles of clothes, unorganized and uncared for, for the most part. He ends up picking a blue flannel and a pair of basic jeans that look to be about two sizes too big on him, but at least he appears satisfied.

He slips on the clothing and, much to Dean’s expectation, he drowns in it. The sleeves are a good three inches too long and the jeans badly need a belt. Regardless of his lack of aesthetic sense, however, Castiel looks good. Like, _really good_.

Just as he catches himself checking out his best friend, his eyes lingering on the slightly protruding bump at the crotch of _his own jeans_ , Cas catches him in the act. At first, his eyes meet Dean’s with complete and total confusion, his head tilting in that way it does when he doesn’t understand something. But Dean can see something flash in those beautiful big blues, something pulling his face into a barely quenched expression of… is that happiness?

Slowly, so slowly that Dean doesn’t realize until he’s a fraction of a second too late, Castiel’s hand drifts from the side of his body, out to his front, hovering just above what seems to be a very awake and very new boner.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean asks, well, screeches at his best friend. Cas steps forward and Dean answers it by meeting him in the middle completely unintentionally. Castiel does let his hand drop from where they lingered, thank _God_ , but they are close. So close that Dean can feel little puffs of air hit his cheek with each of Castiel’s somewhat labored breaths.

“I don’t know, Dean.”

Castiel’s face is slightly reddened. Dean doesn’t recall ever seeing Cas blush, let alone his vessel, and he just doesn’t know what to do. Though, despite his ignorance, his hand lays itself upon one soft, albeit stubbly, cheek. His thumb brushes up and down Castiel’s cheekbone, again of its own volition and despite Dean’s internal protests. Where the hell is this coming from?

“Dean, I don’t… know,” Castiel murmurs, his voice trailing off as he leans forward and forward into Dean’s arms. When did his arms move to embrace his best friend?

Dean swallows back the lump he hadn’t thought was gathering in his throat, his eyes unintentionally slinking downwards to see Castiel’s once blue, and now black eyes. They trace downwards furthermore, refusing to listen to any of Dean’s mental warnings and sliding so they focus on Cas’s slightly chapped, light pink lips.

And then he leans forward, closing that half inch separating them, and gently lays his own lips upon Cas’s. It’s nice, how warm they are against his own, their rough texture oddly pleasant against Dean’s more smooth mouth. Really, though, Castiel’s lips aren’t the most fascinating thing about their, uh, touch.

No, Castiel _moves_. He moves like he’s been doing it for years, like he’s actually kissed more than three people before. Dean supposes that is quite possible; his friend did hit the road for a while after he fell, he could’ve done all sorts of things with those wonderful peachy lips. But his finesse, it’s his absolute skill that astounds Dean. Castiel waves and dilutes in a pace that would be enough to bring obscene thoughts to Dean, sending most of his ambition along with his cautiousness straight to his cock.

So Dean pulls away. It scares the hell out of him, whatever it is that Cas just did. He shifts his gaze so he doesn’t have to see the melancholy and puzzled expression home in on Cas’s face. He takes a step back, just to be certain that he doesn’t do anything rash, and clears his throat.

“I, um, suppose I should go check and see if, uh, Sam’s all right.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Nah, I think I can handle it. Thanks though.”

Castiel wrings out his hands as Dean turns away from him, his eyes directed straight to the floor and a horribly bewildered blush forming on his cheeks.

It takes nearly all of Dean’s resolve to not turn back and envelope the man in his arms and kiss away that confusion. He almost does, despite his gut instinct; but he holds strong, squares his shoulders, and shuffles out of the room, well aware of the steamy blush forming on his cheeks and neck.

That was the first time Dean really realized that the ‘not-just-friends’ sentiment was mutual. 


	2. Drunken Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean drinks himself stupid in the bunker, and Castiel decides to join him. An awkward tension is breached when alcohol destroys barriers.

Castiel is puzzled as to how his hands ended up fisted in Dean’s hair, pulling him closer as their tongues undulate around each other.

It started with an offhanded insult on Dean’s part; he’d muttered something about Castiel being unable to hold his own due to his ignorance regarding basic human mechanics and his general social ineptitude. Castiel, however, listed an array of proof contradicting Dean’s thesis that Castiel ‘needs protecting’.

“I don’t fucking care if you’re a zillion goddamned years old, Cas.” At this point, a small bottle of foul smelling brownish liquid had found a new home in Dean’s hand. “You’re new at humanity, buddy.”

“I’m new at _being human_ , moron. I’ve been watching humanity since your scaly ancestors slithered out of a swamp.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you don’t even know how to make a bed.”

Dean sloshes a sip of the spirits into his mouth after he finishes glaring at Castiel through bleary eyes. Castiel observes as his Adam’s apple bobs with the effort of forcing that repellant liquid down his gullet before allowing his eyes to slide to the bottle.

At that moment, he wants nothing more to experience true drunkenness.

“Can I have some?” Castiel asks, hesitantly reaching a hand across the table to snatch the glass bottle out of the hunter’s hand. His fingertips graze the lip just as Dean yanks it away, that frustrated glare making itself noticed on his brow once again.

“You don’t have your mojo. It won’t go down too easy.”

Castiel glares at his friend, arranging his features into a cold mask of utter contempt and makes another-failed-attempt to ensnare the bottle within his fist.

“I can handle it.”

Dean turns to him with an exasperated eye roll, but begrudgingly slides the alcohol across the table so it stops just in front of Castiel.

Tentatively, Castiel wraps his hand around the neck, carefully sniffing at the pungent odor effusing from the amber liquid. He sets his lips upon the sticky lid and tips the spirits into his mouth, wincing at the horrible burn of what Dean calls medicine.

“Smarts a bit, huh?” Dean smirks, reaching over to reclaim the disgusting drink. “Sam barfed up his first whiskey; I wouldn’t be surprised if you hurled all night. You’re pretty skinny now, dude.”

“I’m not skinny; this vessel is well within the realms of what can be considered an average girth.” Cas mutters as his stomach clenches in odd ways. His vision blurs minutely, the features of the righteous man swimming right before his eyes.

Castiel has also never recalled spending this much time focusing on the facial features of the elder Winchester. He can safely admit that he thought Dean was attractive, as soon as his eyes adjusted to the hopelessness that is humanity. And he vaguely remembers something an old friend said: he’d like to move the furniture around with Dean. The thought hits him hard, and not in a place Castiel was expecting.

Curiously, he glances down at his groin, fascinated by his vessel’s human instinct. Human bodies are so _interesting_. The way they react to everything, the way they’re always at the ready for some pleasurable physical impetus; Castiel had never thought it would be almost… nice.

“Yeah, average in fuckin’ junior high. You’re a lightweight if I’ve ever seen one.”

Castiel shrugs in response to Dean’s comments upon his appearance, not really taking much stock in the inebriated man’s words. Though, Castiel does think he’s beginning to feel the intoxication spreading though his chest, warming him, and wandering to his fingertips in a comfortable buzz.

“I’m not… a lightweight.”

The sentiment is dulled by the loud burp that originates from his gullet, and Dean’s laughing at him when he jumps from the suddenness of it. Castiel’s newly human body has some strange attributes to it; the most startling to him is the almost constant need for regulation and diffusion of gases. Dean, of course, seems to find it hilarious, and is always chuckling at the small noises and twitches that Jimmy’s body exhibits.

“All right, big boy. You’re a fuckin’ tankard of man muscle; as you walk, the ground quakes as it begs for mercy from your awe worthy celestial intent,” Dean says beneath raucous guffaws. After a moment, he swipes his fingertips over his eyes, swiping at tears (from laughter. Castiel has been warned that if he ever tries to comfort Dean again as a result of laughter, Dean’ll punch him in the gut).

When he calms, Dean gives him a once over, his eyes scanning Castiel from head to somewhere below his chin, probably for examination purposes. Still, though, it doesn’t detract from the tingling sensation that follows Dean’s eyes as they hover for a millisecond too long on his lips. Castiel doesn’t understand human oral fixation; it’s as though these bodies have a predisposition to gaining some strange arousal from anything related to mouths.

Castiel can’t say he’s an exception to the fact.

Unaware of his movements, Castiel can feel his legs lift him out of his chair and count his footsteps from around the table to Dean’s rickety old wooden chair. Dean observes him with an almost predatory demeanor; his eyes rack up and down the expanse of Castiel’s height, lingering on key places such as the surprising weight swinging between his legs and, again, Castiel’s lips.

Just as Dean opens his mouth to say something that is likely both moronic and pointless, Castiel ducks down to catch his lips in a sloppy, albeit sloppy kiss. Dean’s lips taste different against his own. Briefly, a more sober part of his brain informs him upon the fact that this is probably a bad idea, and that Dean had expressed outward distaste at the concept of ‘frenching’ with him.

But, Castiel _is_ a light weight, he supposes. His intolerance for the repulsive liquid has clouded any of his logical thoughts away and replaced them with Dean. Dean’s eyes fluttering shut, Dean’s lips pressed flush against his own, Dean’s hair as his hands brush up either side of Dean’s neck and knot into it.

Dean’s hands as they pull Castiel into his lap.

Just as Castiel settles into the dip between Dean’s legs, he feels the evidence of Dean’s arousal brush hard against his inner thigh. Dean’s hands are doing amazing and confusing things to his body; the tingles they leave behind are no longer just tingles, but rather flames of unadulterated _lust_ coursing through his veins. His hands pull and tug at his friend’s hair, yanking it in what are probably painful directions.

His hands still when Dean’s hips give the slightest movement against his own.

It’s not like Castiel has never had sex before; April had ensured that he participated in at least one human experience. But this… this is much better than April already, and neither of them is either giving or accepting. It’s all fervent brushes and soft rubs.

Castiel lets his own hands fall from Dean’s hair to his lap.

He’s never really done any initiating outside of Meg, but he believes he understands the mechanisms of what the website had called a ‘hand job’. His fingers clumsily unbutton and unzip Dean’s jeans, tugging it with enough urgency that Castiel’s hands shake a little. Once his fly is spread open, Castiel reaches a hand into the downy fabric of Dean’s boxers, fishing around until his hand wraps around the weighty girth of Dean’s erection.

It’s only a moment before Dean hastily begins returning the gesture.

Castiel strokes his fisted hand over Dean’s cock, bringing it to hardness in little time with little effort. Granted, he hasn’t even been touched and he can feel the length of his own erection pressing against the briefs Dean had picked up when he and Sam returned from a hunt.

Nonetheless, he slides off of the hunters lap and, with as much finesse as he can manage, brings Dean’s member to his mouth and wraps his lips around the leaking head.

Dean tastes strange. Not a bad strange, but a foreign strange; kind of like the salt of popcorn, or the bitterness of freshly made coffee. It’s a pleasant sensation. Slowly, he takes in more of Dean, dipping his head further and further down until his nose is tickled by the short, light brown hairs adorning Dean’s groin.

Dean moans and buckles atop of him, seemingly overtaken by having himself ‘balls deep’ within Castiel’s mouth. It’s not a strange concept for him; he’s just relatively inexperienced with the act is all. So he sturdies himself over Dean, bracing a hand on either of Dean’s spread knees. He bobs with more fervency, more enthusiasm. And his dips and bobs are returned by Dean; he thrusts shallowly into Castiel’s throat, exuding little groans and moans here and there.

Castiel notices Dean’s shaking legs a second too late, and almost sobbing Castiel’s name, hot fluid pulsates over Castiel’s tongue, filling his mouth with a salty, tangy flavor. He tries his best to swallow it all down, as that is what his research demonstrated most often, but can barely manage holding it in his mouth, let alone allowing it to travel down his throat. So, against all of the Winchesters’ rules, Castiel pulls off of Dean’s cock and walks over to the sink to spit out the salty come.

When he returns, Dean’s still void of breath, his chest heaving deep, gasping moans as he slumps into the hard wooden chair. Castiel pulls out the chair beside Dean’s and poises himself in it, shifting so the neglected pressure in his groin isn’t too much to bear.

Dean finally catches his breath after a few minutes; human bodies really _are_ weak. His eyes shift sideways and focus on Castiel, pinning him to the chair with the lucidity of his gaze. Waiting just beat, Dean’s hand is atop Castiel’s and he’s being pulled out of his chair of Dean’s volition.

“Dean?”

“I’m going to show you somethin’, Cas.” Dean’s footsteps are determined as they slam against the wooden flooring, moving in the direction that’ll pull the two of them into Dean’s room.

“What are you showing me?” Castiel asks, mostly because he doesn’t want to have to bare another lecture about the greatness of soft rock, or whatever it was that he was showing Castiel yesterday.

“It’s a surprise, moron. Don’t angels have surprises?”

Castiel decides not to acknowledge that comment with a response and opts to merely observe as Dean pulls open the heavy metallic door and drags the two of them into his room. Castiel extrapolates himself from Dean’s grasp to shut the door behind them, recalling Sam’s warnings that if he ever brought someone back home; he doesn’t want to see Castiel mid-orgasm.

Yeah, bringingsomeone _back_ home; Sam couldn’t be more wrong.

Castiel keeps his laughter to himself as he wanders back to where Dean has settled himself onto his bed. “Was the surprise sleeping?” Castiel asks, pumping as much sarcasm into his tone as he can manage. “While I like the sentiment, sleep is somethi-”

“That’s not the surprise, dumbass.” Dean pats the space beside where he’s seated and wiggles his eyebrows in a sultry manner. “C’mere.”

Castiel complies, settling himself onto the plush mattress with ease. He glances to Dean expectantly once he’s comfortable. Dean shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with what he’s going to say as he picks at his fingernails and glares at his knees.

“I know you, uh, don’t really know too much about sex, but I, um, wanted to try something,” Dean coughs out, choking on his words more than once as he utters what would normally be a brief statement.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, Dean. Okay.”

Dean grins at him minutely, his eyes shining with some strange happiness that Castiel doesn’t even try to understand. Even so, Castiel grins back, happy to see such rare happiness on the face of his hunter. There is a light brush of fingertips on his own, and he glances down to see Dean catching his hand in a soft almost cradle. He peers back up into his beautiful green eyes and sees that the smile has made it so far as those honest eyes.

“Okay, Cas.”


	3. Another First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel have sex. Sam POV of their relationship.

Castiel moans as Dean’s fingers swirl within him, crooking and exploring every inch of him until he’s brought to a groaning mess.

They’ve been spending more and more time in Dean’s quarters; Dean showing Castiel how his body works now that his human, Castiel more than happy to receive the pleasurable stimuli, being brought to a writhing pulp below Dean’s body on more than one occasion.

This time, Dean is knuckle deep within Castiel, his mouth working in tandem with his fingers as he nibbles and licks at Castiel’s balls.

He’s been informed that before any ‘anal’ can happen, he must first be loosened or loosen the person he’s with. Dean had stressed that this process is most important because he’s not to hurt the person he’s with. Thus, Dean is loosening him now.

It’ll be the first time they go beyond mindless rubbing and occasional ‘blow jobs’, as Dean has coined them. Dean is rather good at blow jobs; his tongue is almost magical as it teases at Castiel’s slit, as it swirls over the head and swipes any of the wetness gathered there, as it licks whole stripes up and along his length.

Castiel is beginning to learn that not only is his mouth magical, but his fingers as well. It’s strange, this human responsiveness; he would’ve never guessed that despite their weaknesses and all of their frailties, human bodies would be so… in tune to physical pleasure.

That being said, his body is definitely no exception. Dean’s fingers circle within him once more, this time brushing over some hot spot buried within him. His hips cant skywards completely of their own volition, as Castiel is left trying to catch his breath, heaving pathetic little puffs of air as he tries to calm his heart rate.

“What did you do?”

Dean pulls away from him for a moment, leaving him empty and wanting more. His face looms in Castiel’s vision, a wide smile painting over his lips.

“I, uh, found your spot.” Dean winks at him before climbing along his body, bracing himself by placing two arms on adjacent sides of Castiel’s head. He swoops down and captures Castiel’s lips within his own, slick tongue running along Castiel’s lower lip. When he pulls away, he offers Castiel a brief grin before pressing his lips to Castiel’s forehead and drawing himself back to Castiel’s ass.

His fingers slide in once more, swirling almost experimentally before drawing back out again. Castiel shifts his weight to his elbows, leaning forward to observe what his hunter is doing.

Dean stands to retrieve something from the drawer residing at the foot of the bed, sifting through various items before setting a condom on the tangled sheets. He dives back into the drawer and plucks through an assortment of random paraphernalia before grinning to himself and placing a small white tube beside the condom.

He observes as Dean tears open the wrapping of the condom and rolls it onto his very aware erection and coats it in a generous layer of lubricant, he pushes his hips upward when Dean asks his permission, and he grinds when Dean pushes into him, filling him more than Castiel would’ve imagined by merely looking at Dean’s length.

And they have sex.

It’s not particularly enthralling or erotic or anything; it’s just… them. Dean’s thrusts are slow, calculated, almost always landing in that spot that exudes pure pleasure throughout Castiel’s veins. Castiel tries to give Dean as much as he’s receiving; he grinds his hips as best as he knows how and experiments with circling them in time with Dean’s pushes.

He’s the first to come.

Castiel had waited as long as he could; hoping Dean would be ready as soon as he was, but no such luck. He spills over his stomach, painting thin strips of white over his skin. Dean’s hand winds around his length and pumps it in time with his thrusts, pulling more droplets of the salty liquid from Castiel’s member.

Dean’s pushes grow more and more sloppy, faltering in their slow rhythm when he wraps his hands on either of Castiel’s hips, drawing him upward and thrusting deeper and deeper.

He comes with a shout, shaking through his orgasm as he collapses atop Castiel’s body. He lets his fingers skate along Dean’s shoulder blades as aftershocks course through his body, drawing little patterns and written nothings into the skin of the righteous man.

When their breathing calms and Dean rolls off of Castiel’s middle, Castiel’s sore legs are prodded apart by one of Dean’s and his head and shoulders are pulled to Dean’s chest. Light kisses are dabbled into his hair, Dean’s breath tickling his scalp when he speaks.

“Was that all right, Cas?”

Castiel peers up to his hunter’s eyes, seeing the tentativeness hiding below the exterior of bliss. It’s mild, that uncertainty, but it’s definitely there. So he tilts his head upwards and kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth, hoping to calm his companion.

“Yes, Dean. It was perfect.”

* * *

* * *

The two idiots have been at it for weeks.

Sam sits in the recliner at the head of the table, attempting to read the ancient text Kevin had designated to him. It would be a relatively mundane and simple task were it not for the two fuckers gazing into each other’s eyes across the table like they’ve found the answers to the universe in each other.

Yeah, Sam’s known for a while that Dean’s had the hots for Castiel. And he’s definitely gotten inkling from Castiel’s body language that the sentiment is mutual.

Still though, it doesn’t excuse the not-so-subtle sneaking around. He’s heard footsteps in the middle of the night, wandering between Castiel’s temporary room to Dean’s quarters, occasionally, there would be a thump suggesting that neither of them made it. Horny bastards.

What gets him the most is how _damn cutesy_ they are about the whole affair. Castiel has developed a relatively spontaneous affinity for pulling Disney princess-like sidelong glances thrown in Dean’s direction. Likewise, Dean has become more… almost coy. He rubs his neck whenever he talks to Cas, and when he doesn’t do that, there’s always a very prominent blush splayed beneath his freckles.

Sam’s had enough.

Just as he sets the book down, he catches Dean’s fingers sliding along Castiel’s hand out of the corner of his eye. Exasperated, Sam shifts the chair as noisily as he can manage and stands, glaring at the dumbasses before him.

Dean’s eyes flit straight to Sam’s face, his hands slipping into his lap with a speed he’d never thought possible of his older brother. Nonetheless, he’s still tired of this bullshit.

“I don’t mind if you two fucking hook up or date or whatever the hell it is you want to do. Just… stop being so damn _honeymoonish_ about it.” Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s one thing to love someone; it’s a completely different story if you can’t keep your goddamned hands off each other and try to hide it with false smiles and subtle doe-eyes.”

Dean and Castiel are both making excellent eye contact with their laps. Castiel even went so far as to ensure his spine is erect and his hands are folded in his lap. Damn proper fucker; Sam has no idea where he learned those manners.

He places his hands on the table, feeling himself come off his tirade. Shifting his focus from Dean to Castiel, he breathes a heavy sigh and relaxes his shoulders completely.

“If you’re worried about whether I, uh, _give you my blessing_ or whatever, don’t be.” He sees Dean’s shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m all for it, if that’s what you guys want. Just… don’t do anything on the couch; I don’t want a repeat of Rhonda what’s-her-face.” He sees Dean smile and Castiel’s spine stiffen. For Christ’s sake.

He grabs his book off the table and makes his way out of the reception room of the bunker, trying to escape before someone, Castiel, says something fucking _cheesy._ Of course, he’s not successful in his pursuits and halts in his tracks by the sound of a gravelly voice muttering, “Thanks, Sam.”

And he spins on his heel; he can’t help it. Despite how much he argues with Cas and Dean, he _does_ still love them more than anything in the world. If they really were worried about his opinion on their… relationship, he should address it.

“Don’t say ‘thanks’, Cas. We’re family, all of us. I’m going to love you no matter what.” Castiel visibly relaxes, his grim stare perking into a tiny smile. Dean, however, has the opposite reaction. It appears Sam’s words have lit some sort of switch that ignited not very laden rambunctiousness buried within his brother.

“What do you mean ‘no matter what’?” Dean mumbles, his voice like a whip.

“I mean just freaking that, dude.”

“So, what, did you know?”

Sam pauses. He didn’t really think Dean would be insightful enough to notice that he noticed. Long ago, actually; when Dad left on a three-week hunt and Dean was a senior. He’d brought a friend to their hotel room, but Sam knew it wasn’t just a friend. Dean had told him to go to a friend’s house for the night, and that excuse has been coached into Sam since he was a fucking toddler.

“Yeah, I knew.” Sam folds his arms over his chest. Dean shouldn’t be angry with him. If anything, he should be pleased that Sam hadn’t forced a confession out of him sooner. Not that Sam would ever do that, of course, but the sentiment stands. “You really think you could kick me out of a hotel room like Dad and expect me to not notice?”

Dean stiffens, his eyes widening as he examines Sam’s face. “You knew that?” he asks, his voice quivering slightly with the weight of his words.

Sam glances at the ground, not really having the heart to confront his brother on this. Yeah, he should’ve told Dean a while ago; it probably would’ve comforted his brother a hell of a lot more than facing it just now is. So, he nods solemnly, and waits for Dean to reply.

When he does, it’s a surprise. Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder in more of a comforting cuff than a reproachful admonish, as he was expecting. He shifts his gaze to his brother’s eyes, searching for something, anything, that would put the blame on him.

“It’s, uh, it’s fine, Sam.” Dean smiles at him, fucking _smiles_. Castiel stands too; wandering to wear Sam was sitting and reclining against the side of the table. “Don’t freak or anything; it’s fine.”

Sam just nods in response, shocked by how the conversation has turned on him. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, wanting more than anything to escape to his room or Kevin’s room or _anywhere fucking else._ Luckily, he receives his respite in the form of a frustrated honors student rushing into the room with a book on ancient scripture.

“Sam, I don’t understand what this does. Did the Mesopotamians intend…” Kevin trails off as his eyes flit from Dean to Cas to Sam to the hand on Sam’s shoulder and back again. He lifts a brow. “What’d I miss?”

Sam shoves away from his brother and ushers himself out of the room, dragging a confused Kevin in tow. “Nothing, you missed nothing. Yeah, I can help you with the Arab sigils,” Sam mutters, not really caring about whether or not he’s making sense. He just wants to get the hell out of there.

As soon as they’re out of the reception room and well down the hall, he slows to a more reasonable pace, letting go of Kevin’s arm as he does so. His companion is heaving labored breaths and has an extremely pissed frown splayed over his features.

“What the hell was that?” Kevin pants out, placing a hand on either of his knees.

Sam doesn’t really believe it’s all that fair to withhold information from someone he considers a member of his family. But, he also doesn’t think it’s right to tell Dean’s business to other people, regardless of their status according to the Winchesters. So, he settles for the most honest answer he can give at the moment.

“Nothing, Kevin. Everything’s perfect.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Unofficially, this will be four parts. Officially, I won't be updating this fic as often as I update the others due to school and the fact that I have close to five series' going right now.


End file.
